


His Weekend at Kenwood

by chanderson



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, High Sex, Hurt/Comfort, LSD, M/M, McLennon, Nostalgia, Paul has a bad trip, This is kinda dark, bad trips, this is so emo jfc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 03:47:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14741435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanderson/pseuds/chanderson
Summary: Paul sees flashes of memories as he works, experiencing them as if they were real. John and him learning cords together, John at the Woolton Fete, sex in Hamburg, sex in Paris, the four of them crying together in Florida, the air shaking with the force of screaming fans, smoking pot together in a tiny bathroom. It makes Paul’s vision blurry with tears.Paul has a bad trip. Ghost from the past haunt him. He's perched on a precipice. It's the beginning of the end.





	His Weekend at Kenwood

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all are gonna be thinking 'damn this is bitch is back already.' Because yes hello I am. 
> 
> This isn't a happy story at all okay. Just a warning. There is some shrouded sweetness in there, but not much. I love my angst.
> 
> LSD is a drug I haven't tried yet, but I did my research and hope this is realistic. 
> 
> Wtf is grammar? Mine is riddled with commas. I apologize ahead of time.
> 
> Set sometime in late February 1967. I don't specify what song they were writing b/c I didn't want to go into too much detail (b/c I'm a lil lazy), but based on the timeline it could be With A Little Help From My Friends or (more likely) Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds.

Paul stamps his feet in an attempt to stay warm, pulling his coat tighter around himself. He knocks on the door at Kenwood for a third time before he finally hears footsteps inside. Then comes Julian’s excited voice. 

“Daddy, Daddy!” Paul hears him shout. “Uncle Paul’s here!” Paul chuckles and stumbles back as John opens the door and Julian shoots out, wrapping his arms around Paul’s legs. 

“Woah, hey there Jules,” Paul says kindly, reaching down to ruffle his hair. “You’re gettin’ so big! You’re practically a giant now aren’t you?” Julian giggles and steps back, finally releasing Paul’s legs. 

“I’m not _that_ big,” he protests. Then, he shyly reaches out to take Paul’s hand and starts tugging him inside. Paul laughs and winks at John. 

“Hello Johnny.” John rolls his eyes and opens the door wider. 

“Get in here already. It’s cold outside.” 

“Your dad’s so impatient Julian.” Paul lets go of Julian’s hand once they’re inside and the door shuts behind them. 

“You want some tea?” John asks as Paul follows him through the house, sidestepping the minefield of toys strewn about the living room. Paul resists the urge to clean up a little. Cyn’s out of town visiting her mother for the weekend and the state of the house is proof enough of that. Paul smiles fondly and sits down at the kitchen table. 

“Yes please.” John nods and goes about fixing Paul some tea. Julian starts trying to clamber into Paul’s lap, so he lifts the boy up and kisses the top of his head. 

“I’ve got a song I want to show you. It’s not quite finished yet. I thought you might be able to help me,” John says as he sets two cups of tea on the table. Paul’s is light with milk, and he feels a surge of affection for John. It’s all so domestic — them sitting here with Julian — and for a second Paul lets himself pretend that this is his life with John, a future they share together. The culmination of the 10 years they’ve spent by each other’s sides. It makes his throat tighten and he swallows thickly, rattling his cup against the saucer as he hastily picks it up. He takes a long sip. The pressure in his chest eases. 

“Ta mate. This is good. Just the way I like it.” John looks up from the Daily Mail he’s currently reading and pulls a goofy smile. 

“I’ve always known how you take your tea, son. Sickeningly sweet.” John shakes his head before looking back down at the paper. It crinkles as he flips a page.

“Uncle Paul?”

“Yes luv?” 

“You wanna play cars with me?” 

“Of cour—”

“Julian, Paul and I have work to do,” John says firmly, cutting Paul off. “He can’t play with you right now.” 

“Aw, c’mon John. We’ve got all day to work. I can spare a few minutes.” John snaps the paper shut and glares at Paul. 

“You can play stupid little games later, Paul. You’re always on my ass about working, and when I actually want to get something done, all you want to do is roll around on the floor with a fucking four year old.” John’s voice has a dangerously sharp edge to it and Paul blinks, taken aback by the sudden outburst. In his lap, Julian whimpers.

“Sorry Daddy,” he whispers. Paul soothingly pets the boy’s hair before gently lifting him up and setting him on the ground. 

“We’ll play later, okay?” Paul says to Julian, looking him in the eyes. “I promise.” Julian’s face immediately breaks out in a smile and he nods. 

“Go on Julian, and don’t bother us while we’re working.” Paul winces again at the naked anger in John’s voice. Julian’s smile falls. 

“Bye Uncle Paul.” Julian slowly leaves the room, slender shoulders hunched, and Paul aches for him. Once he’s gone, Paul turns to John and glares.

“He’s just a little boy, John,” he snaps. “You shouldn’t treat him like he’s such a fucking nuisance to you. It hurts him.” John rolls his eyes and finishes the rest of his tea. 

“Lets go to the music room.”

“John—”

“Christ Paul, can you stop lecturing me on how to raise my son? I just wanna play some music now that Cyn’s not here breathing down our fucking necks.” John angrily stomps his way to the music room and Paul reluctantly follows him. Part of him wants to leave, but then he hears the soft sound of John strumming his guitar and Paul can’t help himself. He’s never been able to stay mad at John; he’s never been able to resist him.

Paul slips into the room and pulls the door shut. There’s a guitar waiting for him, propped up against the couch. He smiles and sits next to John. 

“Sorry for making you mad,” he says softly. John just shakes his head. 

“It’s alright, Macca. Sorry for being an ass.” 

They share a tender smile and the tension seems to melt away. Paul leans over to kiss John’s shoulder, the silky material of his shirt soft against Paul’s lips. John turns his head and they kiss properly. John’s tongue starts poking at Paul’s lips, but he pulls away and chuckles. 

“We’ll never get any work done if we start that up. Show me this song of yours.” John makes a harrumphing sound but bows his head over his guitar anyway. 

“Sometimes you’re no fun, Macca.” 

“Piss off and play your fuckin’ song.” Paul lights up a cigarette as John starts to play. The familiarity of it makes Paul smile wistfully. He’s always felt happiest with his instruments and John by his side.

*******

After a while, John sits up and stretches his arms above his head, his shoulders cracking. 

“You wanna take a quick break?” he asks around a yawn. “I’ve got some LSD I’ve been meaning to take. Might help keep the creativity flowing.” John quirks an eyebrow and Paul nods a little hesitantly. Unlike John, he prefers to keep his songwriting separate from his drug usage. But he knows that, if he doesn’t do it, John will float away from him like an errant balloon and Paul won’t be able to get him back. So he nods and accepts the tab John offers him. 

They wait for it to start kicking in before they get back to work. The song takes on a sillier tone as they float into their high. It amplifies the music Paul hears in his head, makes it a physical entity that he can reach out to touch and feel. It’s all there right in front of him; all he has to do is take it.

The high deepens. He floats untethered, unimpeded by earthly constraints. 

As John plays the guitar, Paul moves to the piano where he writes in a feverish haze. The music seems to flow out of him like a lightning bolt, traveling straight from his brain down to his fingertips. He thinks he may vibrate right out of his skin with the intensity of it. 

He sees flashes of memories as he works, experiencing them as if they were real. John and him learning cords together, John at the Woolton Fete, sex in Hamburg, sex in Paris, the four of them crying together in Florida, the air shaking with the force of screaming fans, smoking pot together in a tiny bathroom. It makes Paul’s vision blurry with tears.

Then John comes up behind him and pulls him away from the piano, guides him to the couch where he slowly pushes Paul down and crouches over him like an animal stalking its prey. Paul turns his head and the walls sparkle like diamonds. He looks up at John and sees double. One second he’s the tough Teddy Boy with his hair swept up like Elvis, then he’s back to the real John with his granny glasses and thick mustache.

“Johnny,” Paul sighs, his eyes fluttering shut. Above him, John huffs out a laugh as he starts to work Paul’s trousers off. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” John whispers in his ear as he pushes Paul’s pants and boxers down all at once. Paul tries to blink away the kaleidoscope of colors and shapes filling his vision, wants to focus wholly on John. When John starts lazily stroking his cock, Paul groans and scrabbles to grab John’s shoulders. The teasing touches alone are more powerful than anything he’s ever felt. He squeezes his eyes shut and colors bloom on the backs of his eyelids.

“Oh God.” Paul blindly reaches up to start tugging at John’s pants. John chuckles again, infuriatingly in control, and wiggles around as he kicks his pants off. He continues to stroke Paul, and it’s almost too much for him to handle. The pressure becomes the only thing Paul can feel. Everything else, every other sense, is gone. He’s floating in space, connected only to John. It’s just John and him and their naked bodies — something primal, something sacred. 

It all becomes a blur after that. Paul’s mind can barely keep up, and he experiences everything in flashes of conscious understanding: John sucking his cock, teeth sinking into his collarbone, the weight of John’s cock in his hand, John’s fingers pushing inside him, sharp pain that edges into pleasure, the salty mixture of tears and sweat burning on his lips, John pulsing inside him, his own cum splattering on his stomach, loud animalistic groans. Then silence. 

John collapses down on top of him and their chests heave against each other, bodies growing sticky with their combined sweat and Paul’s cum. Paul swallows and tries to work some spit into his dry mouth. His throat feels raw. Tears are dried on his cheeks. He barely knows where he is. All his nerve endings are on fire. Suddenly, the room feels far too small. Paul’s breath hitches. 

“Paul? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” 

John’s voice is shockingly loud and Paul recoils from it, tries to move away, but his body is locked in place, the couch swallowing him up like quick sand. The room abruptly starts smoking as rivulets of lava race down the walls. Paul curls into a ball, afraid of tumbling over the edge into the pit of burning, molten lava. 

“We gotta get out of here,” he moans. “John, please.” His voice cracks. He feels tears running down his cheeks. The room is collapsing in on them, shrinking into a small box. Paul shudders and tries to get up. Everything is happening so fast. He feels whiplashed. 

“Paul, baby, come here. Stop.” John comes into his line of sight, moving in slow motion. “Come here, luv. Let’s go outside for a bit.” John slips his arm around Paul’s waist and starts helping him dress. His stomach roils as John leads him out of the room. The house is made of rubber. Everything’s bending out of shape. Paul moans and stumbles. John keeps him moving forward, whispering soothingly in his ear: “We’re almost there, baby. You’re okay; I’ve got you. I won’t let anything hurt you. I love you.” 

They finally make it outside and Paul shudders at the sudden change in temperature. John helps him lie down in the grass. It tickles his skin. He feels bugs on his arms and tries to rub them off, squirming. John pins his arms down and shushes him, reaches up to stroke his hair. He strains against John’s iron grip.

“No, John. Help get the bugs. Please.” Paul screws his eyes shut. “Please Johnny.” 

“Shh, there aren’t any bugs. You’re okay. It’s just a bad trip. You’re okay. You have to calm down, Paul.” 

“I can’t,” Paul says. Doesn’t John understand? Doesn’t he see what’s happening? 

“Paul—”

“Daddy? What’s wrong with Uncle Paul?” John tenses up, body tight as a guitar string. Paul feels the anger thrumming through him. 

“Julian!” he shouts. “Go in the fucking house! Didn’t I tell you not to bother us?” 

John’s voice sounds like a bomb blast in Paul’s ears. He tries to move away, but John grabs his wrist to hold him in place. Distantly, Paul hears Julian sobbing. His tears form a river. Paul thinks he may let it sweep him away. 

*******

Time becomes irrelevant. Paul lives the day in a series of starts and stops. Time stretches out and snaps back into place. Sometimes he sleeps and everything is blissfully black. He vaguely registers being in the bathroom at some point, head hanging over the toilet as he retches. John’s there to clean up his messes, and he carries Paul back to the bed when it’s over, curling around him like a suit of protective armor. 

After a stretch of black, Paul wakes up and blinks blearily. Sun is streaming in through the window, and he grunts, rolling over to shield his eyes. 

He’s surprised to see John lying next to him quietly snoring away, and Paul sits up, confused, wondering why he’s sleeping at Kenwood. Jane’s probably pissed. 

He unsteadily climbs out of bed, grabbing onto the bedside table to keep himself upright as he fights off a wave of dizziness. 

“Paul?” 

Paul turns as John sits up and yanks the chain on the bedside lamp. “Are you okay?” Paul frowns and runs a hand over his face.

“Yeah. A little confused, though. I didn’t plan on staying over.” John frowns and fumbles around for his glasses. 

“Do you not remember what happened yesterday? You had a really bad trip. It was so fucking scary.” 

Paul winces as bits and pieces of the day before start filtering into his memory. He rubs his eyes and groans in frustration. 

“I shouldn’t have fucking tripped. I knew I wasn’t in the right headspace.” It comes out sounding angrier than he’d intended and John shrinks back, guiltily looking down as he twists the blanket in his hands. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I wouldn’t have suggested it if I’d known. Are you angry?” John’s face is filled with remorse, and Paul immediately goes to the bed and gathers him in a hug.

“Of course I’m not angry. I remember you being there with me. Thank you for keeping me safe.” 

“I made Julian cry. I screamed at him when we were outside.” John heaves a sigh and runs a hand through his hair. “Can’t do much of anything right these days, can I?” He tries to inject some humor into the statement but he just sounds sad. Paul sighs and hugs John tighter. 

“It’s okay Johnny. It happens. I love you so fuckin’ much, okay?” 

Then it’s like someone flips a light switch. John smirks and thumps Paul’s nose. 

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get too sentimental on me McCartney.” John’s eyes dance with mischief, and Paul’s reminded of that first day they met at the Fete, the confidence John exuded that Paul found so intoxicating. He playfully rolls his eyes and pokes John’s side.

“Oh shove it, Lennon. And come take a shower with me.” 

“Yessir!” John stands and snaps to a mock salute. Paul smiles fondly as he strips out of his clothes. John whistles and dutifully follows him into the bathroom. 

They take their time showering, goofing around and enjoying each other’s company. It’s not often that they get to be alone like this. It reminds Paul of being in Paris, when everything was so much simpler — another painful stab of the nostalgia that’s been haunting him lately. He recognizes it as the same feeling that upset him yesterday, fucking with his high. 

Once they’re showered and dressed, they go down to John’s sunroom and lounge on the couch for a bit. It’s late in the day, almost 3 in the afternoon, so the sun is in just the right spot. 

John’s nose is buried in some thick book and Paul has a guitar out. He lazily plays a few older rock-and-roll songs. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine that they’re back in John’s bedroom at Mendips, Mimi shouting at them to be quiet. Paul sighs and sets his guitar aside. 

“I’m gonna go find Julian and play with him a bit. I promised him we’d play yesterday.” John glances up from his book and nods. 

“Alright. I’ll come join you in a bit.” Paul nods and heads to Julian's bedroom

“Hey Jules,” he says as he walks in the room. It’s also littered with toys, so Paul makes his way carefully over to where Julian is quietly playing with a toy sports car. 

“Hey Uncle Paul.” He smiles and beckons for Paul to sit down. “Wanna play? I’ve got a car you can use.” 

“I’d love to.” Paul takes the blue car Julian hands him and starts driving it along the carpet, mirroring Julian’s movements.

They sit quietly for a few minutes before Julian sits up and looks over at Paul with big, searching eyes not unlike John’s own. Paul swallows. “What’s wrong, luv?” 

“Why were you crying in the garden yesterday? Did my daddy yell at you?” Paul sighs and motions for Julian to come closer. He pulls the boy into his lap and hugs him tightly. 

“I didn’t feel well. Your dad was helping me.” He pauses and heaves another sigh. “I’m sorry he yelled at you."

“Do you and Daddy love each other?” Paul sighs and buries his nose in Julian’s soft, sweet-smelling hair.

“Yes we do, Julian.”

“That’s good. Sometimes Daddy gets sad, but not when you’re here.” Julian climbs out of Paul’s lap and goes back to his cars. “Love you Uncle Paul.” 

“I love you too, Jules,” Paul says softly. 

Downstairs, Paul hears John making tea and playing an Elvis record. Paul closes his eyes and sighs. The memories of John and him listening to this are so tangible, and he suddenly remembers yesterday at the piano — the memories were so real it was if he was reliving them. 

John knocks on the door and comes into the room. Paul half expects him to be wearing his school uniform and Buddy Holly glasses. 

But he’s not. 

Paul graciously accepts the cup of tea John hands him. Julian starts chatting animatedly about the made-up game he’s playing. Downstairs the door opens and Cynthia announces that she’s home. The phone rings and it’s Jane on the other end. 

Paul stands up and hugs John goodbye. 

He leaves with a pit in his stomach, unable to shake the feeling that he’s perched on a precipice — one wrong move and it’ll swallow him whole. Time seems to be running out, and there’s nothing Paul can do about it.

*******

A year later, when he’s arguing with John in India — shouting at him like he’s never done before — he remembers his weekend at Kenwood. Then it all makes sense. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this wasn't complete garbage. 
> 
> Comments are always appreciated!


End file.
